


Början

by bumblybee



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vikings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 09:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13232970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bumblybee/pseuds/bumblybee
Summary: When Patric closes his eyes, it’s like he never left England.





	Början

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year! This is a prelude for a longer fic that I'm working on, but as I wrote this for Horny's birthday, I wanted to go ahead and get it posted here in addition to [my fic blog](https://bumblybee-fic.tumblr.com/post/169201248480/viking-au-prelude) since I figured more people might be able to find it this way. 
> 
> There are some content warnings that are kind of to be expected when you're talking about vikings, but I've listed them in the end notes in case you need specifics. Essentially, though, if you're okay with _Vikings_ , _The Last Kingdom_ , or similar shows/books, this is pretty comparable.

When Patric closes his eyes, it’s like he never left England.

He carries his shield in one hand and his axe in the other, and he watches as his body moves of its own accord, killing one man with a strike to the neck, killing another with a slash to the face. They drop dead at his feet, and he steps over them as the bodies fall.

_Step, kill. Step, kill._

Patric’s eyesight starts to change after the first few have fallen. It is the all-too-familiar focus of bloodlust—he can only focus on the enemy in front of him, on their weaknesses, on the best place to hack that will cause instantaneous death.

He finds he has no use for his shield; the gods must be with him, because he receives not even a nick to his leather jerkin. He drops the shield at his feet, and unsheathes his sword, which so rarely gets the opportunity to taste lifeblood.

They sing for him, his sword and his axe, from the sound they make as he swings them in the air to the meeting of flesh and iron. Patric’s voice sings with them, the words to the old songs of war that have carved their way onto his heart. He screams them, so loud it makes his voice grow hoarse, and yet he continues on, one life taken and then the next until there are no more breaths but his own. His axe and sword are covered to the hilt in red, and when Patric uses his fingers to wipe the blood from his axe blade and run it down his forehead, he finds his face is drenched, too, blood matted in his beard and in his hair, mingling with the sweat from his brow.

They have died by his hands. These are all the men he has killed, with his axe and with his sword, from his first battle to his very last. He has killed more men than he can count, more men than is possible to count, he thinks. Here they all are, bleeding out into English soil, Christians and his own people, traitors, shoulder to shoulder as far as the eye can see.

And Patric himself without even a scratch.

But then one last warrior appears, draped in a cloak with a hood that covers his head. There is a bow around his body, a quiver on his shoulder, and twin swords hanging from his belt, shiny and new and clearly made by Patric’s own people. When he drops his hood, Patric does not recognize him. His hair is the color of straw, stopping just above his shoulders, and he has no beard, his face clean-shaven, eyes a piercing blue.

Patric tries to raise his axe when the warrior steps forward, but it’s suddenly far too heavy to lift, Patric’s exhaustion catching up with him, and he can only stand there as the man approaches him. The warrior does not reach for his swords—he does not reach for anything until he is standing only a few inches from Patric, and when he does move, it is slowly, carefully, as though Patric is a frightened cat who might bolt at any moment. The man reaches out for him, holding either side of Patric’s face in leather-gloved hands, and Patric stares at him, bracing himself for his death.

But the warrior’s touch is gentle, his thumb skimming Patric’s beard despite the blood. Patric looks into his eyes, and there is warmth there, and curiosity. The warrior reaches for Patric’s axe, swiping his fingers along the flat side of the blade, and runs them over his face, two parallel red lines down his forehead, his nose, his chin.

He smiles at Patric then, not a smile of victory, but one of intimacy, as though he’s known Patric for years. His face softens only for a moment before he turns, pulling his hood over his head and walking in the opposite direction until he fades into the mist.

Only once the warrior is gone does Patric notice it—perched upon one of the bodies a few feet away is a raven, one eye cloudy, the other the color of obsidian so shiny that it reflects Patric’s face back at him when he turns to look at it.

The bird caws, and it flies off into the distance, beyond the horizon with bodies as far as Patric can see.

But when he opens his eyes, returning from his dream, and looks out upon the calm water, the sun rising between the cliffs of the fjord, he’s home again. The clouds have dissipated, if only for a moment, and he can feel the sunlight on his face, warm and comforting.

It is a vision from the gods; there is no mistaking it. Odin does not send messages in meaningless dreams, and Patric is not one to fall asleep on the shoreline, not when he has a warm bed he can return to now.

He is home, back in Birka if only for a short while. And soon, England will no longer be only in the past, only in his visions. The gods will be with him,  the warrior he met in his vision will be beside him, and the raid will be victorious.

Patric rises to his feet, his boots sinking into the damp sand of the shore, and the yell he gives to the sun is the cry of bloodlust, the song of his fathers.

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings include violence and a lot of blood (like, _a lot_ a lot).


End file.
